The Wine of Wrath
by amonitrate
Summary: Part 1 of the Occam's Razor series. Everyone writes a postHorsemen fic. This is mine. A series centering around the events at Bordeaux. Gen. Kronos enjoys the game. He's waited a long time. Of course, it's more fun when the stewardess brings you anything


**Occams Razor 1: The Wine of Wrath**  
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The same shall drink of the wine of the wrath of God, which is poured out without mixture into the cup of his indignation...  
Revelation 14:10  
  
The stewardess flashes me a genuine smile as we board the jet. So nice to meet another soul enjoying their place in life. Methos' phantom presence drifts behind me. On the way to the airport he let me prattle on, nodded in all the right places. Just as well - I was content to let him flail in the web of his conflicting desires awhile longer. Funny how things always work out between us.

I let him snag the window seat while I toss my bag into the overhead bin. He doesn't thank me. I linger in the aisle and watch the business class cabin fill up while Methos stuffs his duffle under his seat. One battered black sack. He didn't bring anything else. Either he's sure he'll be coming back for the rest of his belongings or he figures he won't need them for much longer. It doesn't matter to me what he believes. He's here on the plane, and that's what matters.

I wait until most of the passengers have settled before sinking into the seat next to Methos. He pulls away when my shoulder brushes his. For all his stillness his thoughts are churning so violently I can almost hear them. Searching for a way off the path he set for himself after he spoiled my fight last night. He thinks I resent his reluctance to join me. What would he do if he realized the pleasure it gives me?

"So, Adam," I say as the ground drops out from under the plane.

I wait for his surprised glance. He hasn't volunteered anything about his current life. Hasn't even asked how I found him. Now he's wondering how I know his name. 

"What have you been up to?" I finish.

It doesn't matter that one of my men prepared a dossier on the last ten years of Adam Pierson's life, or that I've tracked down two of his previous identities. I want to hear him answer the question. I want to know how much he'll tell me.

Methos blinks. It takes him a few tries to dredge up an appropriate facial expression. Meanwhile his face slides from the initial trapped - beast panic I love to alabaster smooth before settling on mild disinterest. He used to be better at this.

"Not nearly as much as you have, I suspect." He grins, but his eyes are too careful.

"True." I grin back.

The stewardess parks her cart near my elbow. I transfer my smile from my brother to the woman and turn it down a notch. Wouldn't do to scare the girl. Time enough for that once Silas and Caspian join us. The girl asks if we want anything to drink. Methos stares at her as if he's forgotten what a woman looks like. One would think Cassandra would have reminded him.

"Vodka. On the rocks," I order.

She hands me a cup of ice and a puny bottle of alcohol then smiles patiently at Methos. He shakes his head. She's pretty. A bit overly groomed for my tastes. More my brother's style these days, if my file is to be believed. 

"It's a long flight, Adam," I say. "You're sure you wouldn't like something?"

I put just the right amount of emphasis on the last word and glance up at the girl. Methos' eyes shift to me. His mouth twists in annoyance - the first unfiltered response he's allowed me since I greeted him outside his building.

"Ginger ale," he tells her, and then turns back to the window.

All I can see from my seat is a patch of blinding white clouds. Methos studies the blank sky like it will whisper his next move to him. 

"You had a good thing going there, for awhile."

He catches himself this time. His expression is cool and neutral when he looks at me. Unlike a mortal he feels no obligation to prompt me to continue. I'll keep talking or I won't - he knows I don't need his permission.

"But too bad about the old man."

I see a bit of my brother for the first time. Methos' eyes go hard and he sits very still.

"Old man?" Not so neutral now.

I nod. "Not a dignified death."

His chin lifts. If he's breathing I can't tell.

"What," He swallows and his voice deepens. "What old man?"

I sip my vodka and wink at the kid swinging his legs across the aisle from us.

"Your friend the Watcher. You disappointed me, you know. I thought you'd joined them to hunt."

If we weren't surrounded by mortals and hurtling through the air at some unnatural speed he might have tried to throttle me. Instead the plastic soda cup cracks in his hand. Fizzy liquid drips into his lap.

"Watcher," he echoes.

I hand him a napkin. He takes it as if he expects it will bite his fingers.

"You're making a mess," I chide. "Shall I call the stewardess?"

"No," he grates out.

He swigs down the dregs of his soda. So practical, my brother.

"What did you do?" He demands. Quiet and even. He'd kill me if he believed he had a chance. I pat his hand and he yanks it away.

"Adam," I frown, "You always think the worst of me."

"What. Did. You. Do?" He hisses.

"Same as you," I smile in reassurance, "Not a thing."

He doesn't buy it. I watch him count back in time in his head, measure what I've said against his fears. A spark of doubt flickers in his eyes but he doesn't relax. Waiting. Always so patient, my dear brother.

"Tell me, do you interfere in all of Duncan MacLeod's fights?"

He blinks, a frozen hard-drive look that turns to annoyance at my laugh.

"I've already told you-"

I shake my head.

"You explained why you stopped the fight last night. But that challenge in Paris - even you could have taken a pompous fool like Kalas. So why interfere?"

"Kalas," Methos growls. He wads up his napkin and drops it into the broken cup. "Maybe I wanted to be the one to take his head."

"Hmm," I agree. "That's what I thought. But instead you got him arrested. Maybe you planned to lull him with boredom before you killed him?"

Methos stares at me. He doesn't bother to make up an answer. Maybe he doesn't know himself.

"The Watcher," he presses. He's never been easily distracted. "What did you do?"

"Nothing. You were the one I was interested in."

Methos shifts in his seat. He scans the headlines of the airline magazine stuffed in the pocket by his knees with a false intensity.

"Oh?" His voice is light.

"I considered dropping in on you then. But you were so… you weren't doing anything. It wouldn't have been any fun."

"And I suppose now you're having a blast."

His fingernails are impeccable but he picks at them anyway. He can't keep the bitterness from his voice. Lovely. I could keep pushing but the time isn't ripe. Breaking Methos is like running a marathon. Too much effort too early and you defeat yourself. 

"Beside the point," I say. I sip the lukewarm vodka and glance at him sidelong.

"I'd nearly given up on you. Then Kalas hacked the tongue out of your watcher friend. Not very subtle, that. Think Caspian gave him lessons?"

"Oh, and you're the king of subtlety." Methos mutters.

The lines of his face loosen a bit. What's he so relieved about? Oh - right. Salzer wasn't the only Watcher he's befriended lately.

"I was going to kill you, you know."

He stiffens and relaxes so quickly I almost miss it.

"Really?" He drawls. 

I nod. The vodka is nearly gone. I look around but the stewardess is at the front of the cabin.

"I'll have to thank Caspian and Silas when I see them," Methos says. "Since I owe them my head."

He rubs at his eyes. I doubt he's slept since I caught up with him in Seacouver. Exhaustion is a valuable tool if used wisely. Too much and he'll get erratic and start sliding into unpredictable behaviour. I'll have to work hard to keep him where he is now - too on edge to collect his thoughts but focused enough that I can anticipate which way he'll jump. It's a game I've missed.

"Don't bother. They won't appreciate your thanks."

I make sure to make eye contact with the stewardess when she turns. She gestures to indicate she'll be right with me. 

"Probably not," Methos mutters. His eyes are pink in the bright cabin, so bloodshot they look painful. He'd probably nod off despite himself if I left him alone.

"Anyway, I wasn't talking about last night," I continue.

The stew has impeccable timing. She arrives at my elbow just as Methos realizes he doesn't know what the hell I'm talking about.

"Another vodka?" She asks.

"Please," I glance at Methos. "And a scotch for my friend. Lagavulin?"

Methos stares at the girl. Ready to protest, yet he fails to contradict me.

"Expensive taste." The woman grins. "I'll see what we have."

She smiles at Methos again. She's a little thing. Tiny hands, narrow waist. Methos smiles back but his face is strained. 

"Are you okay, sir?" She asks, smooth young face gone serious.

Methos opens his mouth but no sound comes out. Instead he nods.

"Bad flier," I explain.

She tilts her head and regards him with sympathy.

"Weather's clear from here to France," she says. "Not a cloud in sight."

"Very reassuring," Methos grates after she hands us our liquor and turns away.

He cradles the little bottle of scotch between his hands as he watches the girl bend over an old woman a few rows away from us.

"She reminds you of someone," I prompt.

Methos twists the cap off his bottle and dumps the amber liquid into the undamaged cup the stew left him.

"You were telling me about how you almost killed me?"

"Ah yes. Back when you were hiding in your musty books. I thought it would be a kindness."

I give my head a sorrowful shake and look to see what impact my words have had. Methos' eyes are the flat mottled grey of the stones I skipped over the river when I was a boy.

"A…kindness?"

There was nothing in his eyes when I found him in Paris. The same emptiness as the first time I saw him. Like time had scraped him clean on the inside, leaving nothing but his hollow hide behind. A vessel waiting to be filled.

"I finally catch up with you after so many years and instead of my brother I found a ghost."

"Sorry to disappoint you," he says. He turns away from me in mid-sentence, muffling his words. He doesn't contradict me. He still doesn't ask how I found him. Would he be let down if he found out it was an accident?

"I've lived as a mortal, when I've had to. But you - you weren't living at all. It saddened me to see you like that. I wanted to put you down like a lame horse."

His throat works. When his speaks his voice is hoarse.

"Why didn't you?" he asks the window.

I shrug. 

"I sat outside your flat one night, my knife in my hand. I waited until I was sure you were asleep."

He twists in his seat to watch me. The nights we used to tell stories around the fire return to me. I keep my voice hushed, keep my eyes on his.

"I was about to break in when I remembered something you said once, back in the desert."

I wait. He doesn't speak but he doesn't look away either.

"Silas asked you where the stars went when the dust storms came."

"What did I say?" he asks.

"You told him they didn't go anywhere. That they were only hidden by the clouds."

"Even the stars have shifted since then."

There's a pleading note in his voice that he'd hate if he were aware of it.

"Maybe so," I say, "But they've never stopped being stars, have they?"

Methos shakes his head. Denial or agreement, it doesn't much matter.

"However deep inside you hide it the need never leaves you. The need for a power strong enough to drown out the fear, the boredom, the weariness."

"Not anymore," he insists. "I don't need it anymore."

"Is that why you offered your head to the Highlander?" I keep my voice calm and soothing. "Because you don't need the power anymore?"

His eyes narrow to slits and I know he's made a connection.

"You had me followed."

I spread my hands. "I couldn't very well watch you myself now could I?"

A muscle jumps at his jaw. It troubles him that he never noticed the tail. I only hire the best, and he's gotten sloppy as well as soft.

"Perhaps you're right," I sigh, "After all, you let MacLeod have Kalas' Quickening. If Kalas had killed my only friend I doubt I would have been so generous."

He swallows the shot of scotch in one gulp and his eyes fall closed.

"Why didn't you act sooner, if you knew where I was?"

"I told you. It wouldn't have been any fun."

He nods. I think he believes me. I leave him alone then. The alcohol and lack of sleep take their toll. He sinks deeper into his seat, though he never fully relaxes. Lulled by the crowded safety of the plane he drifts into sleep in fits and starts. 

Caspian may have been in prison for the last twenty years but Methos is the one who's trapped. And I don't intend to give him time to study his cage. As long as I keep him occupied he won't find a way around the bars.

"You've never figured it out, have you brother?" I say to the form slumbering uneasily beside me. "Maybe you never will."


End file.
